


heed the curfew, lest you forget your nemesis

by ushijima ebooks (bokutowl)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Light Horror, M/M, Supernatural Elements, not all the characters in the fic are tagged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutowl/pseuds/ushijima%20ebooks
Summary: (Rule Thirty-Nine.)  Once a year, once the first snow begins, one person from the village must be chosen to enter the woods in order to conquer the evil.This year, Yahaba Shigeru was chosen.  This year, Yahaba Shigeru went into the woods.





	1. bells

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to all who will read this! all my inspiration came mainly from the game _Year Walk_ (a fabulous fantasy/horror game that has the exact feel that this fic will have) and the song "Dirty Paws" by Of Monsters and Men. I recommend checking both of them out!

For as long as Yahaba could remember, his village lived upon a series of predetermined regulations— well, perhaps _rules_ would be a better term— for primary governance. Many of these rules were commonplace for villages and communities at the time, most having to do with interpersonal relationships (no stealing, no disrupting the peace, and the like). A few of these rules, however, did stand out from the rest: rules 8, 21, and 39.

The eighth rule, _Do not go out past sunset,_ was the easiest to comprehend of the three. Furthermore, people could follow it quite easily. Past sunset was the time when most of the _criminals_ were said to be doing their bidding, and not to mention the general ghastly creepiness that the night fog seemed to give the village, so it was easy to understand why everyone had to start wrapping up outdoor work by five in the afternoon in order to be in by six.

The twenty-first rule, _Do not go into the northernmost woods,_ was similar to the eighth rule— no one was inclined to disobey it because the northernmost woods looked frightening enough regardless of a warning. There was rumored to be all kinds and types of monsters and dangerous creatures past those first towering birch trees, so it wasn’t that much of a loss, but Yahaba couldn’t help but wonder…

The thirty-ninth and final rule, by far, was the oddest, most unique, and most _vague_ of all the village’s rules. It contradicted every single other rule, including the other two odd ones. It was also more complicated and complex than a single simple sentence would allow for. The thirty-ninth rule was more a procedure than an actual rule:

_Once a year, once the first snow begins, one person from the village must be chosen. Two days after the Suspected Night, once the sun sets, they are to leave the village in order to conquer the evil residing in the northernmost woods._

This rule, with no outside information, did not make any sense. Not only was there a time constraint, but it was also completely based on intentionally breaking two of the other rules. Furthermore, a steadfast rule about conquering an evil only made sense based on one precedent—

No one had been able to do it.

* * *

 

When Yahaba woke up, the first thing he noticed was his own breath in the air. It curled up towards the wooden ceiling in white wisps before completely dissipating, and Yahaba watched it with sleepy curiosity before closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath. He didn’t want to get up from bed. Getting up from bed meant getting dressed, and getting dressed meant going outside.

Yahaba _definitely_ didn’t want to go outside.

…But, alas, he _had_ to, so he found himself swinging his legs off his bed and throwing the covers off himself. He could make up his bed later, he figured, so he proceeded straight to throwing clothes off and pulling new ones on.

The entire time, he found himself taking note of the quietness and stillness of his house, which usually wouldn’t be that rare if not for how obviously cold it was outside— none of his family would choose to go out in this weather. Was everyone still asleep?

After securing the last button on his shirt, he turned to grab up his watch from his bedside table and squinted at it in the morning light. It was nine in the morning, on a Saturday, which generally meant that no one should be asleep at the moment, so it made the situation an even weirder one. Yahaba sighed before putting the watch on his wrist and heading towards the door to put on his shoes.

Once he was finished, he picked up the burnt-out candlestick from his beside before he proceeded to head downstairs through the empty home, slowly checking in each room for his mother, or his younger brother, or really anyone at this point, but the house seemed empty in every single sense of the word. He didn’t get any exact answer to his multitude of questions until he got to the kitchen, and he finally found what he was looking for: a note, clean and folded, right on the kitchen counter next to a plate with a piece of toast on it.

Yahaba practically scrambled for the note, pushing the plate aside in favor of it. It was a simple enough explanation, but the rest of the words on the note were the ones that troubled him: _We’re in town going to get groceries. Don’t forget your meeting, and don’t forget that tonight is the Suspected Night. Be in the square when you hear the bell. You were late last year._ His chest tightened after reading the note, and it made him realise exactly why his mother hadn’t woken him up this morning as she usually did— she didn’t want to see him.

This was because seeing him would remind her that this was the first year that he would be eighteen during the Suspected Night, which might just be a little too much for her to bear. It was a hard time for mothers, so far as Yahaba had seen, even for the mothers that didn’t have children over eighteen.

That being the case, Yahaba didn’t mind his mother not waking him up. It was entirely understandable. Instead, he moved his attention towards the toast, trying to ignore that continuously twisting feeling in his gut. He should have realised earlier that tonight was the Suspected Night, just by how cold it was when he was waking up. There had also been frost in the window as well, and the leaves were shriveling up… if it weren’t today, it would be tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day.

Regardless of when, it was to happen soon, and the sooner the better for the nerves of everyone in the entire village. The tenseness of the population as a whole was palatable; people were wringing their wrists, shifting their eyes, and bouncing their knees. Desperation was starting to set in. The days leading up to the Suspected Night were always the hardest, because everyone always began seeing what ways they could increase their luck.

(His mother had never participated in these ventures. In this case, to increase your luck would be to decrease someone else’s, she had always said, and that didn’t sit right with her.)

Once the Suspected Night passes, everyone will breathe a little bit easier and calmer— except for one family, naturally— and all will return for normal for at least a little while longer. Those were the moments that Yahaba waited for whenever this time of the year came around, that sedated calmness… This year, though, he felt it might be a little bit different.

Yahaba swallowed the last bite of his toast and went to wash the plate before pocketing the note. He didn’t have that much time before his meeting, so he figured that he should start heading over there. Meeting, then lunch, then meet with his mother if time permits, and then… well, by then, the bell was due to ring for the Suspected Night.

He heaved a sigh, fingers clenching and unclenching after he put his coat on and shoved a hat over his messy hair. The nerves really were getting to him at this point, he couldn’t deny it anymore, and that was harder than anything else. Admitting that this was starting to get to him, as he walked down the street and saw all the others slowly curling into their own worry and fear, was close to unbearable, and he doubted that this meeting would distract him in any kind of way.

Maybe he could fake it. Fake being completely put together, fake being not-worried about what the future held, fake not being jumpy every single time a wagon wheel passed over a large bump in the road, if only to _fake_ the kind of normalcy he would be able to return to in only a matter of three days. Yahaba had always figured that this was going to be stressful for him, having seen the amount of stress that others had been through, but he had never thought it would creep on in him in such a way.

He desperately tried to go through the motions, of course, waving to those he past as he walked through the street, giving a bow to passing ladies and a nod of the head or wave to any friend he saw. Yahaba didn’t see too many of his close friends, however, because they were all older than him, therefore already used to preparing for the exact same thing that he had been struggling with. It was a relief, however, to spot those younger than him—

“Kindaichi, you’re having a good day, I hope?” Yahaba said easily, his smile mirroring Kindaichi’s own, “Especially since you’re out here without a coat.” The younger male laughed sheepishly, shoulders hunching as he laughed rather nervously. Kindaichi gave a glance towards the shop windows that were a couple feet away, finding quick interest in the plethora of gowns that happened to be there.

“I forgot it at home,” he began slowly, returning his gaze to Yahaba’s mirthful one, “I was running late to meet Kunimi, and I was worried that he’d fall asleep outside if I took too long, and you know how when he falls asleep he won’t get woken up for anything, including the bells—”

Yahaba’s expression instantly soured for a moment, a quick one, but not quick enough for it to be unnoticed by Kindaichi. The other winced immediately, shoulders slouching further. “Crap, uh, I’m sorry, Yahaba. I know that it’s a hard time…” As he trailed off, Yahaba’s hands fidgeted again and he shook his head.

“Don’t—” He gulped. “—don’t worry about it. There’s nothing I can do about it. Weren’t you busy rushing to go see Kunimi?” As if the slip up had never happened, Yahaba was smiling and Kindaichi was carefully worrying all over again, giving a quick wave before continuing his sprint down the road.

Yahaba almost laughed when he narrowly missed passerby or two.

For as long as he had known him, Kindaichi had always seemed like he was either late to something or worrying about something; at times, Yahaba found himself worrying just a little bit for the other's nerves, but he figured that it was a good balance since Kindaichi's best friend was the exact opposite of him in every single way possible. If Kindaichi tended to worry and fuss over everything, Kunimi did the exact opposite— nothing was ever an issue.

Yahaba hoped it stayed that way for them both.

He didn’t have that much further to walk until he got to the largest building in the entire village, a simply large house with a spire reaching upwards towards the sky. It always seemed out of place, a large house at the end of a road merely lined with shops and bustling people, but Yahaba couldn’t find himself imagining it being anywhere else. Heaving another sigh, he swept his hat off his head as he proceeded up the large steps.

As he walked up the steps and into the building, he began wondering more and more the exact oddness of the building itself; not just how large it was, but also how many of the materials that it was made out of simply couldn’t be found anywhere within three hundred or four hundred kilometers of the village itself.

(The village, with only about a hundred people, seemed to pride itself on the ornateness of this house, regardless of the paradoxical nature of its existence.)

Once he pushed the door open, Yahaba peeked through before he stepped in, glancing around the empty foyer. He took a breath before speaking, loudly. “Ah— you said you wanted to see me?” For at least three minutes, the silence seemed to echo, playing his voice back like a ringing in his ears.

It wasn’t until Yahaba was just about to turn around until he heard a voice actually respond. “Sorry, sorry, Yahaba. I had honestly forgotten you were to come— I was really busy, you see, so my mind was getting more and more cluttered~”

Oikawa Tooru was more of an enigma than the house itself, despite how much he talked to the population as a whole; he didn’t have an exact, pinnable age (“I’m older than I look,” he would say simply, when anyone asked) nor did he have any known family (he had always been an orphan, the rumors told). There was only one fact that everyone in the village, including Oikawa, could agree on, and that was that he was their _leader._ Known age or not, Oikawa had been in the village when the rules were first created, and he was the only one left that remembered the first Suspected Night. It only seemed fit.

(Leader, ruler, mayor, sovereign, no one knew the right word for him. All they knew was that if Oikawa said something, they were to listen without a question.)

“Why did you ask for me?” As Oikawa stepped down the spiral staircase that lead from a presumable second floor, his smile widened and he laughed.

“Why else?’ Yahaba was about to answer before Oikawa cut him off. “To _talk_ with you, nothing fancy, you’re not in trouble or anything! I just had some questions about that research of yours.” If Oikawa noticed Yahaba paling at the word _research,_ he definitely didn’t mention it. “Come, we can sit on the porch. I won’t keep you for long, surely you want to spend time with your family today~” Yahaba merely nodded slowly, letting Oikawa softly push him by the shoulders towards the terrace doors that were directly across from the front door. “Otherwise, how have you been faring?”

“Well,” Yahaba said quickly, opening the door and sucking in a deep breath once the cold air hit his cheeks, “I have been doing well. And you?” Oikawa merely laughed in response to his polite question, letting go of the other’s shoulders in favor of sitting at a broad, metal-and-glass table. There was a teakettle poised warmly on the surface, and two cups— given the light steam wafting out the spout, Yahaba wondered how closely to the minute that Oikawa had predicted his arrival.

Yahaba sat opposite of Oikawa, hands in his lap. “So, ah my research?” Oikawa laughed again, his eyes twinkling _just_ a little bit before he began pouring two cups of the tea. It smelled like jasmine.

“Yes, yes! Your research! I want to know how it is coming along. Have you found out anything new concerning various possibilities?” Yahaba fidgeted, looking away before immediately moving his attention to the steaming cups of tea.

He scratched the back of his head. “So far, I have not found any major traces of demons or the like in the village, especially as I get closer to the outskirts of the village. H-However…” Yahaba stumbled a bit in his words, averting his gaze again.

That twinkling in Oikawa’s eyes turned critical in a single second, pressing, “However…?” before taking a sip of his tea.

“…However,” Yahaba continued, “I did find old, thin traces of a demon, but these are _very_ old. It has to be centuries old, at the least. Furthermore, they seem to be just from one demon, who is no-doubt long dead or long driven away by now.” At the crease in Oikawa’s brow, Yahaba’s words got more rushed. “Personally, I do not see anything to worry about, the traces being so old, nothing that a ch-charm or even a prayer cannot rightly fix—”

“It is my decision if it is cause for worry, is it not?” The abruptness of the question made Yahaba jump a bit in his chair and his words catch in his throat as if they were trying to choke him. Oikawa’s eyes were right on Yahaba’s, and before the other could answer this apparently-rhetorical question, Oikawa began, quickly, “Ah, it seems as if the snow really is about to fall… It gets quicker and quicker every single year, you see.”

All Yahaba could find himself to do was nod slowly.

Oikawa finally looked away. “That was all I had to ask about. You’re free to go.” Even though he doubted Oikawa could see it, Yahaba bowed lightly as he stood up, the terseness of the atmosphere slowly suffocating him. He found himself turning so quickly to leave, as if he were trying his hardest to run out of the house without picking up his knees. “Ah— Yahaba!”

When he turned back to Oikawa, he found him smiling, lightly. “…Y-yes?”

“Do give your mother my best wishes, will you? Tonight will be _extremely_ hard on her.”

* * *

 

“He gives you his best wishes,” Yahaba began, upon seeing his mother again. She was sitting in the common room, on the couch, glancing more at the book in her hands than reading it. The air was stiff.

She didn’t respond for a minute or two, and Yahaba had almost thought that she hadn’t heard him. “’His best wishes,’” she mused, putting the book down, voice thick with the prospect of tears, “What would those be, I wonder? Does he really wish me the best, Shigeru? If he did would he put this burden on all of us?”

“You know this is not his choice.” Yahaba took a couple steps forward, behind the couch, but not courageous enough to look his mother in the eye yet. “These rules, _this_ rule, was in place far before he had control to put it there—”

“He can very well stop it at any moment he chooses to!” She stood up, whipping her head around, so Yahaba had no choice but to look at her and her tears, “This— This _Suspected Night,_ it is vague at best, only a method and excuse for mothers and fathers and husbands and wives to _worry_ about the next love one to be lost. And, for what? No one has succeeded. No one even _knows_ what this ‘evil’ is.”

Yahaba didn’t interrupt her, because he didn’t find an error in her statement.

“It makes me wonder,” She said finally, as chiming bells rung loud and bolstering, “If the evil is really in those woods.” Yahaba’s mother didn’t look at him as she merely turned to walk towards the door, seemingly not inclined to wake his younger brother. He didn’t have to get up for it, after all. He was only eight years old— nowhere near the necessary age.

It remained silent, the entire walk, from their house towards the middle square of the village. No-one they passed seemed to be in a conversing mood either. It was all somber, as the clouds curled thickly above them all, as they all moved like this was a funeral procession in the making.

(In some ways, it was.)

The silence definitely did not stop once everyone had arrived in the square. Yahaba’s eyes scanned the small crowd of around one hundred people, his lips pressed tightly together. He saw friends, he saw old schoolmates, he saw his neighbors. All of them had the same dull expression that he saw on his mother’s face. It was the same expression he suspected was on his own face.

“Thank you.” Oikawa’s voice always sounded so serene at this time, his smile and thanks genuine, as he rested his hand upon the large, opaque white bowl. He stood in the center of the square, on the raised platform commonly used for speeches. “Every year, your attendance on this night, the Suspected Night, is greatly appreciated. It is you all— not I, nor any other— who keep this village safe and running well. And, for that, I am thankful from the bottom of my heart.”

No one said a word. At this point, it was procedural despair.

“This will be the fourteenth drawing,” he continued, “The fourteenth citizen that will take it upon themselves to insure the safety of this village. We can all only hope they will be successful— but, regardless of the outcome, we know that they deserve the highest of honors.”

There was a pause, and silently one snowflake fell, and then another, and then another. Carefully and serenely. Somberly a name was finally drawn from the white bowl, and Oikawa held it up in the air. “Forever, we will thank you—”

Oikawa read the name on the slip of paper, the snow fell harder, and Yahaba heard his mother begin to cry.

 


	2. snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he had never left the town before this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** mortality discussion. 
> 
> enjoy!

The process for the next two days was the same for Yahaba as it was for the thirteen that went before him.

First was all the procedural formalities. Signing the slip of paper, checking that the bowl hadn’t been rigged for himself, assessing the calling and making sure that it had been a fair procedure. At this point, Yahaba had seen this process so many times from that lower point of view, the distanced sight of the crowd, that he knew enough of what needed to happen in order to go through the motions without any real complete thought. He didn’t know if he would have been capable of any thought further even if it had been required of him.

Second was the preparation process.

“Raise your arms.” Yahaba did as instructed of him, not looking at the tailor as the older lady turned around him with a tape measure in her hands. “Stand up straight, boy. That slouch won’t do you a bit of good.” It was a little bit refreshing, to hear this old woman snap at him. It seemed delightfully out of place for the situation. “Now, what color do you want your clothing to be? The highlights, anyway. The rest is treated leather, so it will be dark brown—”

“Teal.”

They must have been surprised that Yahaba even answered, because everyone in the small tailor’s shop turned their head towards him regardless if they were actually working on his clothing or not. As if she hadn’t noticed everyone else’s reactions, the lady hummed. “Teal, you say? The first one wanted teal too. A weird color for the clothing, if you ask me. The last guy chose red. Really, most of ‘em choose red, or maybe black or green— the last two colors are best to blend in with the woods.” She paused for a fraction of a second as she wrote something on a sheet of paper. Probably a measurement. “It’s quite the weird thing, you know. We’re assumin’ that ‘blending in’ helps at all. I doubt it would.”

Yahaba didn’t respond to her, nor did it look like she was expecting him to in any kind of capacity. She continued to ramble on and on about speculation concerning this _thing_ in the woods. Yahaba found it the oddest thing to speculate about.

Was there… really _anything_ anyone knew about what was in there? Growing up, Yahaba had never been told anything about it. Just stories about its existence, never about what its existence _means._ There was no idea as to what it looked like, how it moved, what was useful against it, what would summon it, and— well, even _Oikawa_ would admit that he had no facts about the evil that resided in the northernmost woods.

_“I have never seen it myself,”_ he would admit, eyes cast downward and offhandedly, _“So I, too, have no idea about this evil, I am afraid.”_

(Yahaba figured that there would be no reason for Oikawa to lie about this, but… he found a part of him in high doubt.)

“Stand on your toes. We gotta make sure that the hems of your pants aren’t hangin’ on the ground.” Yahaba did as he was told immediately, still focusing on staring aimless into the distance of the shop. He was still being flooded with thoughts. This wasn’t like signing the documents and checking for fraud— this part of the process was wrought with confrontation of his situation, of what he would be embarking on within a short amount of time.  He couldn’t run from it here. He couldn’t run from the tailor asking if he favored knives or guns, if he wanted pouches for bandages or not to bother, or if he even cared.

Even worse: Yahaba had _no fucking clue_ which options were best. He just gave the first answer that tumbled through his brain every single damn time he was given a question.

“Guns,” he answered, automatically, not thinking about the _one time_ he shot a gun and fell back three feet from the aftershock.

“Give me a pouch for the bandages,” he mumbled, instantly, not factoring in that if he gets hurt… would he even have time to bandage himself up in the first place?

Yahaba didn’t have any experience. Two days’ time was no amount of time enough to learn anything about survival, or self-defense; there wasn’t even time to learn about it in his daily life at all. There was absolutely nothing in his background as a training _researcher_ that would ever, in any capacity, have prepared him for— “W-Wait!” Everyone in the entire shop suddenly stopped, looking right at him, and even the tailor had accidentally prodded him with the needle she had in her hands at Yahaba’s sudden outburst.

“Ow, uh, I just…”

She obviously wasn’t pleased by being stopped in her work. “Spit it out, boy.”

“…Can you make sure there’s enough space in my pack for a book? Just one. That’s it. I mean, make sure I can fit other things in there, not just the book, but make sure I _can_ fit in the book in any case—” She stuck him again, this time most definitely on purpose, making Yahaba yelp once more before shutting his trap.

She sighed. “Yes, yes, boy. I can. I don’t got the slightest clue whatcha plan to do with a book, but if it’s whatcha want… Then I’m here to oblige ya.” Yahaba let out the breath he was holding, and was immediately smacked again for losing his posture.

* * *

 

The third step was an informal one. It was not planned, or part of the schedule in any way— regardless, it was completely, and hauntingly, necessary.

Third was goodbyes.

Yahaba hadn’t talked to his mother much at all since seeing her in the town square, mainly because he had been whisked away so quickly right at the outset. Furthermore, the next day was spent completely on preparations and formalities to make sure he had everything possible ready for his… trip. During none of these times had she come to see him, visit him, or even _talk_ to him.

In all honesty, he… couldn’t quite find it in himself to blame her.

He had heard that this was the hardest part. He had seen that this was the hardest part. When mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and husbands and wives had to say _goodbye_ to their love ones because the chances of them coming back home after this terrible journey was so damn impossible… it was heartbreaking for Yahaba to even _fathom_ half the time.

Now he had to be a part of it. Now, he _was_ a part of this. And it… it was fucking hurting.

“…Mother, I—”

“They never find a body,” she began, wistfully, looking out the kitchen window as she scrubbed softly at a dish that had been clean for at least five minutes now. “After all of this, I will not have a single thing to bury. Maybe that’s the cruelest thing about this…” Yahaba grit his teeth, hands grasping the wood of the kitchen table hard enough to almost scratch the wood.

His breath was shaky. “I know— I know you do not expect my return but… can you not at least _act_ like I am still here?” She stopped scrubbing. Yahaba took a step forward. “I am still here, I am still here, _please_ notice I am still here.” Gulping, he moved close enough so he could reach to pry the dish from his mother’s shaking hands, setting the dish down in the sink afterword. “Please do not grieve for what may come.”

His mother didn’t speak, and Yahaba didn’t expect her to. She never liked speaking while she was crying. Slowly pulling her into a hug, Yahaba laughed lightly— humorless and dry. “If anything, I would prefer you to never grieve. Although, that… may be _too_ much to ask of myself, I suppose. The least I can ask is… please do not grieve while I am still here with you.”

She didn’t respond, and once again, Yahaba didn’t expect her to. He was fine with it, though—  he could settle for silence.

* * *

 

The most curious thing about the entire ordeal is that Yahaba couldn’t find it in himself to experience any fear whatsoever concerning the possible events that could unfold upon him— maybe that was it, because he didn’t exactly _know_ what was going to possibly happen, he didn’t have the energy within himself to expound any extra effort on being despondent.

Or maybe the fear that seemed to loom around him so extremely, so definitely, including all of his own despair, had long been sucked out of him by this time. His mother’s fear, his brother’s sadness, his neighbors’ pity, and even his friends’ worry had already soaked up all he had to afford in the realm of total hopelessness.

So… was that a good thing? Was it a good thing that he was walking back towards the center of the town now, no emotions coursing through him at all? His backpack was light on his back, and this new outfit fit so well that it was odd— it was abnormal to him, maybe only because he had never experienced clothing that was actually _tailored_ to his body before.

(Almost all of his clothing were hand-me-downs from his neighbor’s son. The other boy was taller than him, though, and a little bit lankier, so there were some odd fits here and there. Yahaba’s mother seemed to always make it work, though.)

When Yahaba finally did arrive to the center of the town, out way later than he ever had been, it was completely quiet. Snow fell lightly towards the ground, taking longer and longer to melt with each passing minute. There was no doubt that the snow would start to stick very soon.

“Yahaba! Right on time, as always. Your punctuality is an inspiration; very few in this town seem partake in the same respect.” Yahaba’s eyes snapped up to that platform from two nights previous, eyes widening only a fraction until he made out the curve of Oikawa’s smile in the dimmed lights.

“Ah… hello.”

Yahaba’s less-than-lackluster answer seemed to amuse Oikawa for some reason, because the other man laughed lightly before moving to walk down to flat ground. “You are surprisingly much less tense than I expected you to be, Yahaba, and I find that an inspiration as well.” _Hopefully it will last,_ followed wordlessly, especially evident in the hand that clasped at Yahaba’s shoulder, and the softer smile aimed at him.

It was a moment or two before Yahaba responded; he had taken time to examine his surroundings once more. “…Thank you, in both respects.” Oikawa laughed out loud once more, hitting Yahaba on the back again before stepping away, still looking at him.

“I trust that you’ve been completely prepared? Everything signed?” Yahaba nodded an affirmative. “Appropriate clothing?” Another nod.

The smile returned, and Oikawa crooked his finger at Yahaba, in a _come here_ motion as he began to walk out of the town center. Towards the woods. The walk was almost silent the entire way, the only sound being the soft rustling of leaves as the crunched under the weight of the snow that fell from the sky. Yahaba took it in slowly, carefully, glancing at each house as he passed it, each house that was already dim, each house that already had its curtains closed for the night.

It was odd to think that, by tomorrow, everything would be as it usually was for another 362 days. Everyone would get up for work, school, or whatever it is that they had to do, and business would continue as usual, as if none of this had ever happened. Yahaba supposed that was for the best, if the town was able to move on quickly, because there didn’t seem to be a use for mourning that lasted long than a day or two.

When Oikawa finally stopped walking, at the base of the northernmost woods, Yahaba finally looked up.

The air around them grew quiet then, and Oikawa turned around. It had to have been another couple minutes before he spoke; they stood there in complete silence. He did eventually speak, though, and when he did his voice was different that Yahaba had ever heard before. There was a… _darkness_ about it, deep and unsettling in a manner that Yahaba wished he had _never_ experienced.

“And you have said your goodbyes as well, yes?” Yahaba’s blood ran cold, and he gulped as he wrung his wrists. What was this? What was so damn _different_ all of a sudden? Objectively, there was no difference in Oikawa’s tone or word choice, there was just… a sudden _haunting_ factor that presented itself in the situation. Was this it? Was this all that fear and despair and terror that had been missing in action for so long finally showing itself? He couldn’t— he couldn’t feel this _now,_ while he was still in the town, before he even took a single step into the woods—

“I have. I have said my goodbyes.” Yahaba resolved to ignore the feeling of a noose around his neck. “I am ready to go.” Oikawa turned back around then, his hands clasped tight around his back. His coat flitted lightly in the cold wind as snowflakes slowly started to stick to it, only adding to the wistful look that Yahaba’s elder suddenly possessed.

The dichotomy between the past two minutes was enough to chill Yahaba for a lifetime.

Oikawa beamed, taking two long strides so he was right before him. Yahaba had never realised that Oikawa was taller than him; Yahaba had been so used to being taller than others that he always assumed he wouldn’t meet many people taller than himself. But now, with Oikawa so close, he found himself shrinking where he stood, despite the smile that pulled at Oikawa’s lips.

“I _really_ hope you will return. I will be consumed with sorrow if I am to never see you again, you know.” For a fraction of a second, Yahaba wondered if he was special and Oikawa _hadn’t_ said this to all the people he had taken this death march with.

(Well, maybe “wondered” was the wrong word. “Hoped” fit much better.)

Yahaba didn’t respond, he couldn’t find it in himself, so Oikawa just seemed to search his eyes one more time before he stepped to the side in order to proceed back towards the town. Back towards the center. Before he got too far away, Yahaba found himself turning around slightly, just enough to watch Oikawa. The other seemed to notice this somehow, and he stopped walking.

“You know, Yahaba, I will give you a piece of advice.” He didn’t turn back. “Winter is your companion, your friend, lest you forget your nemesis. There is a reason you are being sent out now.” That seemed to be the last thing that Oikawa wanted to say, because he immediately returned to walking down the path, back towards the town center.

And, with that, Yahaba was left alone, except for the sound of the snow falling and the hollowed echo of the woods.

There was a choice, at the back of Yahaba’s mind, to run— would they know if he did? No one every returned from this, there was never any body that was found, they always acted as if the person that was sent had died. If he ran, say, to the next village over— which was about 10 km away— who would ever know?

The shame would hit him so quickly, though, wouldn’t it? He’d be giving up, which would hurt him, despite how useless of a venture this was in the end. Returning home would never be an option, nor could he tell anyone the truth of where he had come from; he would only live in…. secrecy and shame for the rest of his life.

As Yahaba took his first steps into the woods, he laughed. That’s what it had come to, in the end. A question concerning which one displeased him more: certain death or shame.

He didn’t dwell on this long. The woods managed, in short time, to swallow up his concern and he was reminded of the rules that he had found himself so confused by when he was younger. Interestingly enough, he was disobeying two in order to abide by one. It was way past dark, past sundown, and all he had to cure the darkness was the smallest torch he could have afforded himself; even further, he was _in_ the woods in the first place. He had always simply attributed these rules to avoiding the dangers that the woods and darkness provided, but now that he was here… well, it wasn’t that he didn’t believe that any further. It was that he felt there was more _to_ “dangers” than he previously though.

The interesting thing Yahaba figured out, as he began his first trek into the woods, was that one never really knows what it feels like to be alone until they are faced with it in a crushing amount. The overwhelming pressure that Yahaba suddenly realised was haunting, overwhelming, and close to painful; he was alone in the worst sense of the word. The only thing the soft sound of snow falling to the ground did was to confirm that.

If Yahaba were to die, right there, no one would come to look for him. No one would even _think_ to look for him. There was no one on the planet really expecting to ever see him again. Isn’t that the loneliest feeling possible? Knowing that, at that very moment, there wasn’t a single person that expected to see you, to help you. There was no know that could help him if he needed.

After the loneliness was fear. That was another interesting thing about being alone— being alone was the _best thing_ that Yahaba could hope for. It wasn’t like he had to _debate_ if he was going to encounter something. His trek into the woods was preceded with the assumption that he was not only going to meet something out here, but whatever he met was surely going to kill him.

Because of this, every crack of a branch only served to help him tighten his grip on his revolver. Did he crack the branch? Was it the falling snow? There had to be some other animals out here, maybe it was them, or just the wind…

Regardless, he didn’t dare turn the safety off on the gun— accidentally shooting it off was the last thing he wanted to happen. It wasn’t only loud, but it was extremely… well, dangerous. He didn’t want to shoot it off when it was still in its _holster,_ or pointing in some other wrong direction. With every step further into the woods, against the falling and sticking snow, Yahaba kept the barrel of the gun pointed no more than five feet ahead of him in his right hand and the torch in his left hand.

He held the torch lower than his shoulder, if only so he could protect it from the snow. After walking for what seemed like an hour, the snow did seem to finally let up, but only after dusting the ground with what had to have been at least six centimeters of snow. It was annoying to trudge through, at the very least, so Yahaba came to a very quick conclusion: he needed to set up a camp for the night.

The first step to doing this, he figured, was finding a large tree. Any kind of large tree, or rock, or cliff would serve a good enough purpose for him; something to block out the wind, something for him to lean his back against with the least amount of worry as possible. Even a clearing would work— a flat space for him to regroup. Now, if he had a map, he could probably know where the ridges and valleys of these woods were; however, that would have only been too lucky. He had no possible map of this area.

He could no longer even see the lights from the village if he were to turn around. Despite making marks every so often against trees, he doubted it would really do him much good if he needed to get back to the village. The help of the sun would be his best bet for that. The sun would do jack shit to help him find a place for adequate shelter, though, so he resigned himself to thinking about how lost he was going to get _after_ he had dealt with the current issue on the table.

So, shelter. Shelter, shelter, shelter. Yahaba slowly came to a stop, moving his torch from side to side in order to help himself take in his surroundings. The trees all seemed to range between medium-sized and thin, wispy things that curled upwards towards the pitch-black sky. There didn’t seem to be any trees larger than that. Carefully, slower, Yahaba continued to walk, this time with a scouting eye— he glanced at every tree he could, past it, ignoring how the bite of the cold was getting harsher and harsher as the wind picked up.

The last, and final, interesting thing that Yahaba realised that night, while he was walking slowly in the woods, was that the scariest possible thing that could happen _wasn’t_ thinking he was alone and then, all of a sudden, realizing he was not. Now, that was terrifying, but what was worst was coming upon this realization the exact moment that his torch burnt out to only leave descending embers. In the single second that he heard the _snap_ of a large branch breaking under the weight of _something,_ he turned around too quickly and the wind blew too fast and his torch was out.

It was completely, utterly, _dark._

He sucked in a breath, he heard another branch _snap_ and Yahaba couldn’t help acting on his first instinct. Yahaba started to run, only vaguely guided from running into trees by the hazy glow of the moonlight above him. When he started to run, he heard the _snapping_ get faster, closer, and harder.

Was this it? Was this all that those that had come into the woods before him ever accomplished? A couple hours of walking in the woods, their night punctuated by a final ten minutes of complete fear? He had almost tripped over elongated branches at least five times now, and his lungs were burning, and the snapping was getting closer, closer, closer, closer, _closer, **closer, CLOSER—**_

Yahaba turned around, throwing the dead torch to the ground as he moved to grab the revolver with both hands and click the safety off. All he pointed it at was pitch-darkness.

The snapping had stopped. It was quiet.

Yahaba took a step back, and his foot had fallen on something that wasn’t snow-covered ground— he stumbled backwards in surprise, and he dropped the gun in favor of catching himself on his palms. His brain was working too fast; he didn’t know whether to scramble for the gun first or to figure out _why there wasn’t snow on the ground here._ He seemed to try for both at once, reaching for the gun with his left hand and feeling the ground with his right hand, only to be left curious at the softness of the dirt.

It wasn’t packed ground. It was _soft,_ like it had been dug up then put back. A few more seconds of catching his breath, and he stood up, his gun shaking in his hands. He put the safety back on. Pausing a moment, he listened, to catch any noises, and he allowed himself a moment of relief when there wasn’t a single sound other than his own breathing. Perhaps he… had lost it, whatever it was, that had been chasing him.

(He figured it wouldn’t hurt to hope that.)

Bending back down, he placed his hand on the dirt again, still curious as to why the dirt had been dug up and why no snow had fallen onto it. It was still too dark to really see anything, and all he could currently make out was that the dirt had accumulated into a mound. Yahaba didn’t think before slowly pressing his fingers into the dirt, knocking it away easily when it allowed him to. He did the process once, twice, three times more, his eyes squinting as his fingers hit something that _wasn’t_ dirt.

It felt…. soft, like cloth.

Quickly, hastily, he pulled around his book bag so he could reach into the pocket for a match— he was going to wait until he found another dry branch to create a torch, but he figured that he could spare one for this. Striking it quickly, he held down the match towards the mound of dirt, and his breathing came close to stopping entirely.

It was leather clothing with accents of red, nearly covered entirely with dirt.

The wind blew, blowing out the match, and Yahaba stood up as the moon finally came out from behind the clouds once more. With this new source of light, the first thing the young man realised was that he had stopped running at the edge of a clearing; it seemed to be at least 50 meters in diameter, from where he was to the other side. The second thing he realised, upon looking down, was that the object of his previous curiosity had been a grave. A shallow, fresh grave with a stick serving as a headstone.

The third thing he realised was that the entire clearing was filled with hundreds of these shallow, fresh graves.

There was a _snap_. Yahaba screamed.


End file.
